


Reaper's Moon

by cycnus39



Series: Dodge City [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: 2K Round-up Challenge, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Old West, Rough Sex, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cycnus39/pseuds/cycnus39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under a harvest moon, everyone reaps what they sow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaper's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in Dodge City about two years post-Ella.

The moon was full and bright, hanging above him like a scarred silver dollar in the sky. Chris couldn’t remember deciding to sit down and look up at it, his ass was just suddenly on the cold ground and he was leaning against the rain barrel at the back of the feed store frowning at the moon. It reminded him of something, something silvery, something that wasn’t a dollar.

“There you are.” A dark figure stepped up and cast a shadow over him, blocked out the moon and kept talking to him, but Chris didn’t care, just closed his eyes and looked at the moon inside his head. It reminded him of something.

“I said get up!” someone shouted a heartbeat before a hand touched his stomach, grabbed his waistband and hauled him to his feet. 

Pushing away from the grabbing hand, Chris stumbled back against the rain barrel, felt water slop down his back as he squinted at the dark figure.

“Fuck you, Cox,” he growled, his whisky soaked mind finally dredging up the big man’s identity. 

“Fuck me?” Cox returned, and Chris never saw the punch coming, pain just exploded down his spine from the left side of his face and he was on the ground blinking away orange and purple spots. “Fuck you, you cocky little bastard!” Cox bellowed just before a harsh boot caught Chris soundly in the ribs, making him lose his breath to the abrupt agony, making him roll up onto his knees and press his forehead against the ground as he gasped for air.

“Look at me!” Cox grabbed a handful of Chris’ hair, pulled him up so he was kneeling blinking up at Cox’s furious face. “Just because a few dumb cowboys think you’re hot shit at taming nags don’t mean you’re anything in Dodge, understand?” Cox demanded, fingers twisting in Chris’ hair until Chris managed to get enough air into his lungs for Cox to force a pained grunt out of him. “Hell, boy, I’ve got my Colt right here.” Cox paused to pat the fine leather holster on his hip. “And you ain’t allowed to carry anything bigger than a toothpick without my say so.”

“You’d need something bigger than a toothpick to take me, you big fat braying jenny,” Chris coughed out and almost saw the slap coming, almost. Then the orange and purple spots were back again and he was on the ground again and Cox was yelling at him again and he just wanted to find Buck’s room and go to bed.

“Cocky little fuckers like you make me sick,” Cox snarled even as one of Cox’s big hands jammed against the bottom of Chris’ back, brushing the top of his ass before tightening around his waistband and pulling him to his feet. “You think you’re such hot shit just because you can break a few cocky colts?” Cox grabbed a cruel handful of Chris’ hair and hissed in his face, “Well, I can break this cocky colt.”

Half expecting a punch in the guts, Chris’ whisky sodden mind was trying to think up some way of stopping Cox’s fist hurting him again, when Cox threw him into the pile of feed sacks at the far corner of the store. After the sacks of feed had hit his body like twenty pulled punches and the rough burlap had finished grating against his hands and face, Chris decided lying on the feed sacks wasn’t so bad, was almost dozing off when Cox’s hands were on him again, roughly jerking his damp shirt out of his waistband.

“Yeah, I heard how you go around the herds bustin’ for anyone with the money to pay you.” One of Cox’s hands grabbed Chris’ waistband again while the other snuck under his hip to unbutton the top of his fly. “You’re no better than those filthy whores in The Clamshell, are you?” One of Cox’s hands was in his hair again, yanking his head back, while the other pushed down under his loosened waistband and grabbed at his ass. “Are you?” 

Lashing out, Chris drove the heel of his right hand up under Cox’s jaw hard enough to make it snap shut, hard enough to stun Cox, to make him stagger back a step. But, before Chris could push up off the feed sacks to continue the fight, Cox’s knee slammed into his back, driving the air from his lungs even as it pinned him down. Then Cox was grabbing his hair, smashing his face into a feed sack and punching him in the ribs. 

“Lie still, you crazy little fuck,” Cox snarled as Chris struggled against the torture, “or I’ll bust you up so bad you’ll never ride anything again.”

Too blind with rage to see, to think, to even care that he couldn’t breathe, Chris didn’t notice the sack hook in his hand until Cox was screaming. Then Cox was staggering back, trying to pull his gun, and Chris was charging into Cox, slamming the sack hook into the side of Cox’s head just as the gun went off and he collapsed on top of Cox gasping for air.

And Cox wasn’t moving.

Leaning up on Cox’s chest, Chris could feel blood dripping off his fingers, blood soaking his shirtsleeve, blinked at Cox staring blindly up at the night sky. He could see the moon in the pool of blood by Cox’s head. The moon reminded him of something.

“Chris?” Buck was suddenly running towards him from the shadows of the back lots. “What-- Jack?” Buck froze above them, staring down at Cox’s grey face. “Jack?” Buck said more softly, crouching down and gently turning Cox’s head to expose a gaping hole in his skull. “Lord,” Buck whispered, sinking to his knees. “What did you do, Chris? What did you do?”

Realising the bright silver of the moon reminded him of Buck, Chris reached out to Buck only to have Buck catch his hand. 

“Did he shoot you?” Buck asked urgently, pulling the bandana from around his neck and wrapping it around Chris’ hand. “Where are you hit?”

As Buck carefully checked his bloody hand and arm for a bullet wound, Chris shook his head. “Didn’t hit me. It ain’t mine.”

Buck finished checking Chris’ arm then dabbed at his bloody shirtsleeve almost absentmindedly before abruptly throwing his bandana to the ground. “So why did you kill him, Chris? Why did you kill Jack?” 

“He started it.”

“He started it?” Buck repeated in stunned disbelief. “He started it?” Buck growled, grabbing the front of Chris’ shirt and pulling him down so his face was inches from the hole in Cox’s head. “His brains are on the ground!”

Pushing out of Buck’s grasp, Chris overbalanced and fell to the side, was leaning up on one elbow when Buck grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. His immediate thought was that Buck was trying to fight him, tried to push away again, but Buck pulled him into a close embrace, began dragging him off into the shadows of the back lots as voices called out to Cox from the other direction.

“Damn it! Stop fighting me and move,” Buck snarled, almost carrying Chris down an alley that took them across Front Street at its darkest point between the blacksmith and livery stable. “All right,” Buck sighed as they reached the alley to the boarding house’s backstairs. “Now, we’re going to go up the outside steps so get your legs under you. If you pull me down, I’ll drop you flat, you hear?”

Chris knew it was an idle threat, knew Buck wouldn’t drop him, but still made an effort to stand and walk up the stairs leaning as much of his body into Buck’s warmth as he could. He was wondering if the moon was as warm as Buck, if the moon smelled like bathhouse soap and cigar smoke like Buck, when they reached the top of the stairs and Buck opened the door then threw him into the room like a sack of clothes. Hitting the dresser hard didn’t hurt that much, but slumping to the floor somehow did, and then Buck was slamming the door shut and shouting at him while lighting the wall lamps above the dresser.

“Tell me this isn’t happening! Tell me you didn’t just stave in the skull of the only man in this town who was actually our friend!”

Frowning up at Buck, Chris barely recalled being in Cox’s company at all. “He wasn’t my friend.”

“My friend, then!” Buck snapped back at him as the last lamp caught and held a flame. “He was my friend and you killed him.” Buck dropped to his knees beside Chris, closed his eyes and sighed, “You killed him.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Chris tried, but Buck just glared at him.

“Do you think that matters? He’s dead! He’s dead and they’ll hang you for sure if they find out it was you.”

Chris scowled. “Cox started it.”

“That don’t matter! What matters is they liked him and he’s dead and no one likes you!”

Chris didn’t respond, just watched Buck close his eyes and turn his face away as if he didn’t like him anymore either. 

“All right, give me that shirt.” Buck was facing him again but avoiding his gaze while unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll drop it into the laundry with mine. Hell, I think it’s one of mine anyway,” Buck continued, frowning at the stained material.

Not knowing if the shirt was Buck’s or not, Chris said nothing, just closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of Buck’s fingers occasionally brushing his skin until Buck pulled the shirt away then moved down his body to pull off his boots.

“They ain’t yours,” Chris growled, kicking Buck’s hands away.

“Don’t do that!” Buck slapped Chris’ legs in reprimand then pulled off Chris’ boots. “Now don’t go putting them on again if you’re gonna go crawlin’ on the bed,” Buck warned him, tucking the boots away on the other side of the dresser before standing up with the stained shirt in hand and turning for the door.

“Buck?”

“What?” Buck stopped with his hand on the doorknob but wouldn’t look back at Chris.

“You can leave the shirt till morning.”

“This ain’t about the shirt, Chris!” Buck turned on him furiously. “This is about you killing my friend and probably going to hang for it! Don’t you get that? Is any of this gettin’ through that thick skull of yours at all?”

Chris said nothing, just let Buck glare at him in silence then walk out the room, locking the door behind him.

* * * *

Cold.

Chris woke up shivering on bare floorboards, lying on his side with no shirt or boots on and the corner of a dresser digging into his back. Buck’s room dresser. He was in Buck’s room. Frowning, he looked up, looked across the floor to see Buck, wearing nothing but a half unbuttoned shirt, sitting on the thin rug by the side of the bed drinking whisky out of an almost empty bottle.

Watching Chris move, Buck blinked at him slowly before telling him very low, “They made me Assistant Marshal. We were all standing over Jack’s corpse, saying how we were going to get the sons of bitches who did it, saying how it was probably those cowboys from this morning circling back for some payback, and someone, I forget who, said I should take Jack’s place, that I should take Jack’s badge. So they gave me it.” Buck looked down at something in his left hand before taking another swig out of the bottle in his right. “Yeah.” Buck blinked up at the ceiling. “They gave me it. Said I’d do a fine job, said I’d--” Buck broke off with a choked breath and threw the thing in his left hand at Chris, made Chris jump as a sharp corner on the thing nicked his chest before it ricocheted up onto the top of the dresser. 

“You made me a liar!” Buck bellowed as Chris inspected the cut just above his right nipple, frowned at the blood trickling down his chest. “You made me stand over my friend and lie about catching his killer, lie about--”

Launching himself at Buck, Chris punched Buck soundly in the jaw before grabbing the whisky bottle out of Buck’s hand and taking a long drink. Too long. He’d just swallowed down the last of the whisky when Buck ploughed into him, knocking him to the floor and pinning him down while trying to wrest the bottle from his fingers. Even though the bottle was empty, Chris wouldn’t let go, couldn’t let go, until Buck punched him in the face.

“Why did you kill him, Chris?” Buck demanded as the bottle spun off into oblivion. “Why did you have to kill him?” Buck stood up and grabbed Chris by his waistband, pulled him to his feet to hit him again, but Chris didn’t want to fight anymore, wrapped his arms around Buck’s neck and kissed the side of Buck’s head.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care.” Buck tried to pry Chris off but Chris held on tight.

“He wouldn’t leave me alone,” Chris continued, but Buck didn’t want to listen, slapped Chris’ sore ribs so hard he had to collapse back onto the bed and curl up into the pain.

But then Buck did want to listen, did want to know, pushed Chris onto his back and pinned him to the mattress, growled in his face, “Why? Why wouldn’t he leave you alone? What did you do?”

“I pissed him off,” Chris gasped, trying to pull Buck down for a kiss. “He wanted to break me.”

“What?”

“Fuck me,” Chris went on, pulling Buck down harder and almost getting a kiss, almost getting a touch. “He tried to fuck me. Unbuttoned my fly, grabbed my ass.”

“Like this?” Buck snapped, yanking him over and jamming a hand down the back of his waistband to grab his ass just like Cox had done. But Chris wanted it from Buck, pushed up into Buck’s hand. “Is this what you killed him for? Or this?” Buck hissed, jamming a hand down Chris’ partially unbuttoned fly to press against his rapidly hardening cock. “Is this it?” 

Chris didn’t care what Buck was saying, just tried to get Buck’s hand on his cock to move, wriggled his hips, tried to get Buck to move. 

Then Buck was moving, still yelling about Cox, but moving, yanking off the rest of their clothes then pushing Chris further onto the mattress.

“Is this what he wanted?” Buck climbed onto the bed beside Chris and manoeuvred him onto his hands and knees. “Did he want you like this? Did he want to do this?” Buck’s fingers dug into Chris’ hips in a cruel parody of Buck’s usual touch, but Chris didn’t care, just pushed back into the hard heat of Buck’s body. 

“Did he want you? Did he want this?” Buck continued breathlessly, and Chris felt the slick head of Buck’s cock move across his skin, start pushing inside him, and then he was breathless, was collapsing down on his elbows, desperately trying to push back into Buck’s violent thrusts while still favouring his aching ribs. But he couldn’t match Buck for long. As soon as Buck’s thrusts began building towards an erratic climax, Chris’ arms gave way and he collapsed into a world of excruciating pain that only got worse when Buck crashed down on top of him.

And it didn’t end there.

Even after he’d shoved Buck away, relentless agony still held him powerless to do anything but snarl back at it until the pain in his ribs finally stopped gutting him alive and the world opened up to include Buck stroking his hair, Buck mumbling brokenly by his ear, “Please, Chris, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please stop hurtin’. I’m so sorry.”

“S’all right. I ain’t dead,” Chris choked out, forcing his upper arm up and grabbing a handful of Buck’s thick hair then tugging on it as if the action could somehow turn off Buck’s distress.

“No, you ain’t,” Buck agreed with a feverish rain of relieved kisses. “I’m so sorry, Chris. I truly am. I don’t know why I did that. I was-- I’m so sorry.”

“I heard you the first time.” He tugged on Buck’s hair harder, but Buck wouldn’t stop fussing. 

“I’ve never done that before and you know I’d never--”

“It’s all right, Buck. Quit kissin’ me.”

“You sure?”

“I just said so didn’t I?” Chris tugged Buck’s hair hard enough to make him squeal. “Go get the blankets. We need to sleep this off.” 

“But--”

“Go get the blankets before I yank something else!” 

“I’m getting them, I’m getting them,” Buck griped before finally moving off to grab the blankets from the foot of the bed.

“Don’t touch me,” Chris warned, as Buck moved back up to lie close behind him, shaking out the blankets to tuck over them. “If you fall asleep on me, I swear I’ll break your jaw.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Buck hushed him as they settled down beneath the blankets together. 

Chris didn’t remember Buck speaking again, didn’t even remember falling asleep.

* * * *

“Chris?” Buck was saying softly from very far away and someone was stroking his hair, gently, almost gingerly. “Come on, sunshine, I have to go.”

“Buck?” Chris squinted open his eyes to a sliver of Buck, a sliver of Buck’s rented room doused in morning light, then screwed his eyes tight shut and severely wished he hadn’t moved at all. Everything hurt. Even his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Buck continued very softly. “I know you’re hurtin’ but I need to tell you the room’s paid through to the end of the week and I’ve left the chits for my horse, saddle and guns on the dresser. You can keep them or sell them, I don’t mind which.”

“What?” Chris forced his eyes open again, saw Buck moving to get off the bed and caught his arm. “Where you goin’?”

“To turn myself in,” Buck answered without looking at him.

Scowling at Buck’s hunched shoulders, Chris asked low, “For what?”

“You know what!” Buck pulled his hat from his head and threw it to the floor, glared at it for a moment before leaning back over the mattress and carefully caressing the least sore side of Chris’ face with the back of one finger. “I hurt you. I...” Buck swallowed hard before continuing hoarsely, “I did what Cox wanted to do so it’s only fair I take the blame for him being dead.”

Chris thought he must still be dreaming, closed his eyes tight then opened them again, but Buck was still leaning over the bed looking impossibly serious. “Are you drunk?”

“No!” Buck pulled back to glare at him. “I’m trying to make this right.”

“You’re trying to make a fool of yourself, maybe get yourself hanged,” Chris snapped, sitting up to try and figure out where he hurt most, but everything hurt so bad he just ended up cradling his head in his hands and growling, “You didn’t do nothin’ I didn’t want and Cox got what was coming to him.”

“God damn it, Chris! It’s hurts just looking at you. You’re more bruises than skin.”

“So?” Chris met Buck’s pained look with a glower. “I was thrown out of ten saloons last night, got in fights in half of them.”

“It was twelve saloons and you got in fights in all of them.”

“There it is then.” Chris went back to cradling his head, wondered if it was worth getting out of bed to get more whisky. 

Sighing, Buck turned and flopped back on the mattress with his head by Chris’ hip, reached a hand up to stroke Chris’ forearm. “But I don’t hurt you. Not like that.”

“You didn’t do nothin’ and Cox could have arrested me or walked away.”

“It ain’t that simple, Chris.”

“Yes it is, Buck.” He met Buck’s upside down gaze with an irritated glower. “I ain’t gonna lose any sleep over anything that happened last night. Leave it be.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m an Assistant Marshal now!” Buck got up off the mattress and stomped to the foot of the bed, started pacing up and down. “I’m going to have to try and find Cox’s killer.”

Watching Buck pace agitatedly, Chris said, “So arrest me.”

Buck stopped stomping around to stare at him. “So they can hang you? No, sir! I ain’t lettin’ them hang you.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“I guess I’ll just play along!” Buck threw his hands up in the air and started stomping again. “Ride out with them after those cowboys and pretend I give a damn.”

Frowning at Buck’s continued agitation, Chris asked, “Don’t you?”

“Give a damn about, Cox? No.” Buck sat down on the foot of the bed and stared at his boots. “Least not anymore.”

“Guess we’ll give it a couple of weeks then leave town, then.”

Buck nodded. “Guess we will.”

When Buck just continued to sit looking down at his boots, Chris began to think that maybe he should say something. But, a heartbeat later, Buck stood up and walked around to the other side of the bed, picked his hat up from the floor then walked over to the dresser and picked up his chits. 

“All right, I’m gonna go get my guns then report for duty.” Buck stuffed his chits into his coat pocket and then looked himself over in the dresser mirror, smoothed down his hair and moustache before putting his hat on just right. “Now, you, I hope,” Buck said turning from the mirror to face Chris, “are gonna stay here at least until them bruises turn a calmer shade of purple.”

“I’ll stay here,” Chris agreed, “if you bring me whisky.”

Considering Chris narrowly, Buck replied, “Tell you what, if you promise to stay in bed, I’ll send Miss Lizzie-May up with a few shots for you, all right?”

“No.” Chris smiled at Buck’s confused frown. “But I’ll stay in bed and give you a kiss if you bring me a bottle.”

Raising his eyebrows, Buck circled around the bed to Chris’ side and Chris let Buck take a gentle hold of his chin, let Buck kiss him softly on the lips. Then Buck was easing back to study Chris’ face from mere inches away, stroked Chris’ jaw tentatively as he whispered, “If you’re hurtin’ that bad, I’ll get the doc to you. He’ll give you something better than whisky.”

“No.” Chris closed his eyes and leaned into Buck’s touch. “You know laudanum makes me puke. Just get me the whisky.”

“All right,” Buck agreed with the softest kiss.

 

 

End


End file.
